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Mark Talbot, Preston’s old friend and birding companion, crept quietly along the trail, shining the halogen flashlight a few steps ahead of him. His feet slipped frequently on the slick mud, especially where roots snaked across the path. Although Mark had seen light in the sky of the clearing, here in the forest he felt the dark closing around him like a cocoon. “5:10” glowed on the face of the large watch on his wrist. Another twenty minutes remained to find the Highland Guan, which called repeatedly, sounding like a giant finger grating along the teeth of a giant comb. As he hiked along
the trail, Mark tried to triangulate the location of the call: listen, move,
listen again. The call moved with him, always in front, never behind.
Soon, this fool’s errand would end and he could rejoin the group.
What had Preston been thinking?
Why did he think I could locate the Guan under these conditions? A sudden gust of cold air and fog swirled around, obscuring the trees, giving them an unearthly quality, as though they grew from clouds rather than the earth. Mark stopped and stood silently. All around him, skinks and rodents made minute scuttling noises in the leaves, sounds that only someone with Mark’s extraordinary hearing could detect. The Guan called again. Damn! It’s right above me somewhere. The flashlight he’d borrowed from Geoff proved useless, providing only a blinding reflection from the water droplets. Maybe Geoff’s night vision goggles would work better. The device showed the forest as a gauzy tableau of dense shrubbery beneath towering trees, all rendered in electronic green hues. Mark resumed his quest, scanning with the goggles, searching for the Guan. His keen ears caught the sound of a stick breaking. What’s that? Something large! A ghostly image formed on the screen of the goggles. A man! Mark suppressed a momentary feeling of panic. Who’s out here besides me? Mark shivered, struggling to see through the mists, but could make out only a vague shadow. He tried using the flashlight, but saw only fog. Forgetting his original purpose, Mark called out, “¡Hola! ¿Quien esta? Who’s there?” The shadow stopped suddenly. It leaned closer, as though trying to see Mark, then turned abruptly and disappeared. “Geoff?” Mark called. Only Geoff would think it funny to follow Mark into the forest, planning an ambush. The wind swirled the fog again. A sound! Someone whispering? Straining his hearing to the utmost, Mark struggled to discern the message. He couldn’t recognize the language. He glimpsed the
shadow again. Now, two of them stood before him. He called, “Wait!” There
was no response. What
is Spanish for wait? “Alto!”
That’s close enough. The shadows didn’t stop; they disappeared. What had Preston said? “The woods can play tricks on you in the fog and poor light.” |
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